


I'll Be Home

by MalMao



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, how harry got there is hugely dramatic and not really pertinent unfortunately, i know it's November don't JUDGE me, this was gonna end super sad so you better be happy that i am a merciful god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMao/pseuds/MalMao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy throws open the entryway with enough force to make his wreath clank against the glossy black wood and says, “Listen, you lot—.”</p><p>—but that’s all he gets out before the sight in front of him sends his voice stuttering to a halt. Because there are not carolers at his doorstep. There is not a group of overtly cheerful chorus singers opening their mouths in song.</p><p>There’s a ghost instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Home

**Author's Note:**

> It's November the 4th and I don't even care. Let's get the Christmas train a-rollin'! Choo choo, mother fuckers!
> 
> For [Jessica](http://galahadthelate.tumblr.com) ♥

Eggsy remembers a time—a not so distant time at all—when he adored the holiday season. Even Dean, for all his maliciousness and abuse, found his soul somewhere between a holiday ham and the pop of a Christmas cracker. His pockets were always wider this time of the year, his little mercies far more frequent.

Not that it matters now.

It’s been months since Eggsy—since _Galahad_ —walked into the Black Prince and stepped out again with bloody knuckles and his mum falling into step behind. Months since he _personally_ saw to the incarceration of his now ex-stepfather. Months since the divorce papers went through.

In a perfect world, this would be the happiest Christmas Eggsy had celebrated since—well. In a long time.

But the thing of it is—

The thing of it is that while it’s been months since he’d finally pulled his family out of the darkness, it’s also been months since Harry Hart disappeared within it.

Kingsman didn’t go back for him, no matter how much Eggsy dug his heels in or caused a scene or generally reacted like an absolute child. No, Harry was left to bake in the Kentucky sun, his blood seeped deep into the asphalt of that church parking lot, his eyes forever fixed on the cloudless blue above.

“Don't act like this isn’t just as hard for me as it is for you,” Merlin had snapped eventually in that cool but decidedly sharp way of his. “You are not the only one of us that cared for him, but it’s simply—”

_The Way Things Are._

Merlin and he didn’t get along well in those following weeks.

But that—that was months ago as well.

It’s Christmas Eve now, just barely hanging on to that final hour, and the yawning pain in Eggsy’s sternum has grown wide and hungry since the signs of the season began to emerge.

He heard the first carol and wondered if Harry would have reveled in it or complained about its presence as early as the month of November. He saw a horrible reindeer jumper and imagined it stretched over Harry’s broad shoulders, cinched around his narrow waist. He felt the chill of a coming frost and thought of kissing in the snow. He noticed couples clasping mitten covered palms and saw himself warming Harry’s cool hands with his breath, clutching them between his own.

He can go nowhere without the ghost of Harry following after.

There had been a Christmas party at his mother’s, but Eggsy had turned in early after filling himself to the brim with food and mulled wine and kisses on the cheek from his gran. His mum looked on worriedly as he slipped into his coat and said his goodbyes, though she didn’t protest.

She saw him off with a plastic container of left overs. At one point, he even thought she might bring it up, might try to cobble together advice from insights she didn’t quite understand. Thankfully, she seemed to think better of it.  

Which found him here. Curled up on a dead man’s sofa, ensconced in a dead man’s quilt, watching a film mentioned to him in passing from the mouth of a ghost. Harry’s robe doesn’t even smell like him anymore, Eggsy thinks pitifully.

JB snores quietly from in front of the fireplace, too warm and full of scraps to take notice of his master’s wallowing melancholy. The lights on Eggsy’s own tree—his first—are winking at him from the corner of the room.

Eggsy thinks he might actually hate this time of year.

Just as Nikita meets Marco at the supermarket, flirting and giggling behind her hands, there’s a knock at the door.

 _Carolers_ , Eggsy think dismissively and settles in. They’ll leave when he doesn’t answer. Move on to the next house where their voices will filter, muffled, through the walls.

Eggsy will allow himself this overly indulgent sorrow for just one night. He’ll get pissed on perfect martinis and sprawl in his office chair while thumbing through a scrapbook filled with newspaper headlines that he’d put together after pulling them down off the walls and lie in Harry’s bed with one of the few pillowcases that still smells like him. And in the morning he’ll leave self-pity on his doorstep when he departs, safe for another day like this one when the grief hits as hard and fast.

But that isn’t what happens.

The carolers knock again.

And again.

And again.

Each time a bit more frantically until Eggsy huffily tosses off his blanket, murmuring obscenities about their persistence all the way to the front door. He throws open the entryway with enough force to make his wreath clank against the glossy black wood and says, “Listen, you lot—.”

—but that’s all he gets out before the sight in front of him sends his voice stuttering to a halt. Because there are not carolers at his doorstep. There is not a group of overtly cheerful chorus singers opening their mouths in song.

There’s a ghost instead.

It can’t be a ghost though, can it? A ghost would look like some memory Eggsy has, like Harry in bespoke suit or a burgundy robe or a cardigan that seemed so soft that Eggsy had the urge to reach out and touch it despite the anger crackling in the air.

But no.

This ghost barely looks like Harry at all. His hair has gone all curly, something Eggsy had only seen in a few photographs that he’d found hidden away in the attic during a cleaning spree a few months back.

_(He remembers hunching over the pictures, enraptured with some longing sort of endearment as he thumbed through memory after memory.)_

Harry doesn’t have a beard but his stubble is unkempt and white around the chin, and his eyes are cupped by deep purple rings that tell of too little sleep. Or too much. Eggsy notices the scar too, smooth and white on Harry’s temple from where he—where—

His eye looks nearly unscathed though, except for the pupil which has spread into the deep chocolate of his iris like a broken egg yolk. But most of all, Eggsy has never seen Harry dressed like this. In an oversized grey t-shirt and hospital blue scrub pants that are an inch too short and show a sliver of pale ankle over the top of black tennis shoes.

On his wrist is a forgotten hospital bracelet and he looks thinner than Eggsy remembers and he’s still so devastatingly handsome that Eggsy _aches_ with it.

“Eggsy,” the apparition calls out like a sigh, teeth chattering. It’s snowing out.

“I—,” Eggsy begins. His throat is closing up and his vision is blurring and he tries with all his might to keep his lip from quivering too. “I’ve gone proper mental, ain’t I?”

Harry shakes his head wordlessly, like he can’t quite summon a verbal response just yet, and seems to reach out for Eggsy only to abortively curl his fingers and let his hand fall back to his side. He’s shivering now, full bodied and deep boned. Eggsy can’t tell if it’s from the cold or not.

“Ha-Harry?” he says finally and the motion of his quivering speech causes just one, warm tear to tumble out.

“I’m so sorry, Eggsy,” Harry says. His voice is graveled with disuse. “I shouldn’t have—.” Whatever he shouldn’t have done—whether it was leave angry or made Eggsy wait so long or come in the dead of night like a thief—may never be known, because before the words can even form on his tongue, Eggsy has launched himself forward. His arms wrap around Harry’s neck and shoulders, and his fingers fist tightly into the cotton of his shirt.

It’s the smell of him that convinces Eggsy. Harry doesn’t smell like Harry. He doesn’t smell like a memory or a ghost. He smells like a hospital and an airport and stale detergent. He smells like a man who hasn’t been home in months, who hasn’t been soaked in all things familiar, who hasn’t been around anything he knows or loves. Eggsy buries his face into the crook of Harry’s neck and breathes it in. Breathes in the reality of it.

Harry is solid and warm but feels thin under his touch. His arms hold tightly, long and lean as they circle around Eggsy’s waist. He presses his face into Eggsy’s neck and kisses the bend of it, once-twice-three times, rough and wet and with the barest hint of teeth.

“I’m here,” he whispers, and Eggsy realizes he’s been speaking, saying Harry’s name over and over like a mantra. Like a prayer.

He pulls back, frantic energy suddenly bubbling up to overflow, and searches blindly for Harry’s mouth. Misses at first. Harry huffs an endeared chuckle before Eggsy finds his lips at last.

“Easy,” Harry tells him gently between biting, frenzied kisses. “Easy.”

Eggsy doesn’t know how long they stand there, door gaping open as they stay molded together in its mouth. Snow wisps across the hardwood floor and melts when it settles deeper in the warm hallway. Their kisses slow eventually, from punishingly frantic to slow and languid. Eggsy couldn’t care less about the cold. He could get frostbite for all it mattered to him. The world could end. The ground could open up and swallow him whole.

But then Harry is quaking and his stomach gives a loud groan, and for all Eggsy doesn’t give a hoot about his own comfort, Harry’s is a separate matter entirely.

He pulls back and rests his forehead against Harry’s with a mad grin, “Could’ve told me you was hungry.”

“I’d forgotten,” Harry replies wistfully. Eggsy leans back to observe him once more, to drink in all the details he had missed so dreadfully and all the ones he hadn’t even remembered. He rests his palm against the side of Harry’s face—thumb gently stroking his cheekbone—and Harry immediately turns to kiss the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist.

Eggsy’s still not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming. He might have fallen asleep on the sofa, the credits of Nikita rolling softly in the background by now. Although, it doesn’t feel like a dream.

But then, it never does.

He takes Harry by the hand and guides him inside. There are leftovers from the party in the fridge, and Eggsy scoops them out of the Tupperware to heat in the microwave. He can’t stop touching Harry. As the food warms, Eggsy wraps his arms about Harry’s ribs right in the middle of kitchen and doesn’t let go for a solid minute after the timer has gone off.

Harry scarfs down the meal in a manner that Eggsy is certain would be called ‘unbefitting of a gentleman’ in any other circumstance. He would tease him if he wasn’t so busy gawking like a besotted teenager.

JB stirs at the scent of food and shamelessly seats himself at Harry’s feet without so much as a greeting.

“Bruv’s an excellent guard dog,” Eggsy jokes, stroking his fingers through Harry’s hair. He’s standing beside the chair, and Harry has his arm around his waist from where he’s seated. Eggsy feels needy with it. Honestly, he would probably be ashamed of his own clinginess if Harry didn’t seem so endeared and perfectly indulgent.

“I can see that,” Harry replies dryly. He takes a piece of fat from his plate and passes it down into JB’s flat muzzle. “You haven’t changed a thing in this musty old house, have you? I’d have thought you’d at least take down that wretched painting.”

Eggsy knows the exact frame in question without even needing to look where Harry is motioning. It’s a terribly ugly looking creature that might be a dog. Or a demon. Or a mixture of both. Honestly Eggsy can’t be sure. He had, in fact, removed it for an entire day before the faded, rectangular mark it had left behind began to make that ache in Eggsy’s sternum open wide and threaten to swallow him whole.

“Is Mr. Pickle still standing sentry as well?” Harry carries on. “He’s a terrible eye sore, but I was rather fond of him. And he does make visitors squirm.”

Eggsy buries his nose in the hair at the top of Harry’s head and grins giddily. Of course Harry would be unapologetically tacky for the sheer amusement of it. Of course he would. “I missed you somethin’ awful, Harry.”

Harry looks up at Eggsy with such a soft expression that it makes Eggsy’s chest tight. “Did I tell you before I left,” he begins, sounding far too regretful for Eggsy’s taste, “how terribly besotted I am with you?”

And Eggsy doesn’t even know what to say to that. Instead, he cradles Harry’s face between his hands and bends to kiss him once more. It’s much softer this time, more gentle and reverent. Harry hums contentedly as Eggsy pulls out of it.

Eggsy ends up setting out two slices of pie to finish off the meal and wonders—with the speed at which they are devoured as well—when the last time Harry must’ve eaten was.

They retreat upstairs eventually, and Eggsy finally finds it within himself to move out of Harry’s orbit for long enough to gather some supplies from the bedroom while Harry prepares himself for a shower. Eggsy figures he ought to check his phone while he’s at it. He’d left it out on his nightstand before creating a nest on the sofa downstairs and settling in. Admittedly, probably not the best idea for an agent, but he can’t be arsed to feel guilty about it now.

He has five missed calls from Merlin, three from Roxy, and a text that Eggsy barely reads. Something about news from the Kentucky. He gets the idea.  

He replies simply, "He's here."

The screen lights up almost immediately with a new incoming message.

23:57  
**From** : Merlin  
_Call him a wanker for me, would you?_

Eggsy smiles wildly and turns the phone on silent. He gathers a few articles of clothing that he could never bring himself to box up or, an even more terrible thought, dispose of. By the time he lays them out on the bathroom counter, Harry has the shower on full blast and the steam is beginning to fog up the mirrors.

Eggsy doesn’t even hesitate before stripping down and joining him. It’s not as though they’ve never seen each other naked before, albeit only once with too many martinis in their blood and not much time spent _looking_ as much as _enjoying_.

“This shower is aces, Harry,” Eggsy tell him as he steps through the little stone archway and closes the glass door behind. It looks like the type of shower Eggsy had only seen in magazines before meeting Harry, with slate tiled floors and a regular shower spout coupled with the one Harry is using now. A square ceiling mount with lower water pressure so in feels a bit like getting caught in very warm rain. He’d barely known what to do with all that room the first time he’d used it.  

“I know,” Harry replies, holding out his hand for Eggsy and pulling him closer. “I had it installed myself.”

Eggsy smirks and places a hand on either side of Harry’s ribs. He _is_ thinner, Eggsy notices immediately. The muscle is still there, ready to be coaxed back to the surface by training and basic nutrition, but a lot of it has fallen away under disuse.

“I think I might honestly love this shower more than  _you_ , luv.”

There’s no shock at Eggsy’s casual confession. No stiff awkwardness or passionate embrace. Just comfortable acceptance. Of course he loves Harry. A blind man could see it.

“I wouldn’t fault you for it,” Harry replies easily.

Eggsy’s eyes skim Harry’s features and catch on the scar that mars his temple. His fingers trail over smooth lines of the mark ever so gently, taking in the depth and dimension of it. Committing it to memory.

“It’s not very pretty, I know,” Harry says, cutting into his silent exploration.

Eggsy wants to say something terribly romantic in response. Something about how Harry could be made up of nothing _but_ scars and he would still be loved by Eggsy. Only living things scar. Only living things heal. Dead things stay cracked open and gaping and until a few hours previous, Harry was the latter and not the former.

But Eggsy can’t think of anything but the steady movement of Harry’s body, of the gentle in and out of his lungs, of the pulse resonating under every inch of his skin.

“You were,” he begins without meeting Harry’s eye. “You were dead.”

“I know.”

“You was dead, and I—,” he can’t help the desperate sense of dread clawing its way up his throat. “I feel like I’m dreamin’ this. Like I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be gone again and I can’t—”

Harry stops him with a hand cupping the side of his neck, “I’m not going _anywhere_. I’m right here, darling. I promise.”

“That’s what you always say,” and Harry looks so terribly stricken by it that Eggsy wishes he could eat the words right back up. Instead, he apologized by helping wash his shoulders and massaging shampoo into his hair and only laughing just a little at the way Harry’s nose wrinkles at the bitter taste in his mouth after he kisses Eggsy’s palm before the soap has been completely rinsed away.

They’re skin is still pink and warm once they’ve found themselves under the blankets in Harry’s bed and Eggsy finds himself wanting to drown in the taste of shower soft skin. He gives wet, open mouthed kisses to the tendons of Harry’s neck, nibbles at the protrusion of his ribs, dips his tongue briefly into navel, sucks a mark into the crevice between hip and pelvis.

And although Harry’s cock is half full by the time Eggsy has reached it, Harry tells him—with his fingers threaded through short, blond hair—that he doesn’t have to pay it any attention. That it can wait till the morning, or the morning after that, or the morning after that, or any morning for the foreseeable future.  

It’s a lovely sentiment and one which Eggsy steadfastly ignores. He works Harry to full harness with his hand and little suckling kisses along the sides of his shaft because this is what Eggsy _needs_. He needs the taste of clean skin in his mouth and come at the back of his throat. He needs the weight of Harry’s cock on his tongue, the pulsing of pre-come every time he hits Eggsy’s soft palette.

It’s quick and quiet and Harry finishes with a soft sigh and Eggsy still sucking him down.

Eggsy tucks Harry back into his pajama bottoms, waving off any attempts at reciprocation as he covers them both up.

Eggsy would love for Harry to make him come, with his lovely hands or his wicked mouth. With Eggsy bouncing in his lap or while Harry fucks him raw. But not tonight. Tonight Eggsy doesn’t need to get off. He just needs to curl into Harry’s warmth and _sleep_. That’s all. Just this.

.

In all honesty, Eggsy fully expects to wake to a cold, empty bed and the sinking realization that all the wonderful memories from the night before were nothing more than a dream.

Instead, and against all odds, he wakes to Harry. His hair is crimped in all directions from sleeping on it wet and he looks flushed from Eggsy clinging to him like an octopus in his sleep. He stirs a little and Eggsy can see the creases in his cheek from where it’s been pressed into the pillow.

“Happy Christmas,” he tells Eggsy groggily, eyes squinting against the unnatural bright of a snowy morning.

Eggsy feels happiness bubble up inside of him so intensely that he’s sure he could float right out of the room if he concentrated hard enough.

“Merlin told me to call you a wanker,” Eggsy replies in lieu of returning the sentiment. Harry groans and pulls his pillow out from beneath his head to toss it at a gleefully giggling Eggsy.

It’s the best Christmas present Eggsy’s ever received.

Bar none.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://hellahartwin.tumblr.com)! XD


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